Dezmund
by kenway.swag
Summary: It's okay, Desmond. You're already dead, so maybe you don't have to worry about not existing if your ancestors turn out bi. At least they are hot. T to be safe tags: time travel, altdes, possible altdesezio and altdeseziocon


PROLOUGE

* * *

Altaïr didn't believe in guardian angels. Really, he didn't.

The _presence_, however, was gone.

Ever since Solomon's Temple, a comforting cloud hung over Altaïr's shoulder, soothing him in fits of anger, calming him in distressed times, and simply being there for the sad moments. After Al Mualim, however, the presence disappeared. What happened? Altaïr knew it was not related to the Apple at all, because despite being in the artifact's presence often, not an inkling of the warmth he once knew would come.

When _the boy_ appeared out of nowhere, however, so did the comforting presence.

Naturally, Altaïr was interested.

_"Has the fledging gotten lost?" _

He didn't know why he said that. It just felt fitting. For all the boy's obvious skills in handling knights, an air of naïvety clung to him; he was a bird with feathers big enough to fly, but no experience in stormy winds to make full use of them. Altaïr could teach him, though. The boy jumped a little at the master assassin's appearance, startled, but otherwise he was composed. Hm.

_"Altaïr?"_

Reflexes kicked in, and soon the boy was pinned against a wall, but not without a quick disarming technique that caught Altaïr off-guard before the master assassin recovered, though one knife short. He substituted with his hidden blade instead, leaving a trail of red on the boy's cheek and a drop of blood, which traced a smooth, slightly tanned cheek before meeting the strange clothing the boy wore. A black shirt with faded Crusader text was covered with a hooded cloak that coloured assassin red inside. What first caught Altaïr's eye, though, was the white outside of the clothing. White, like a cloud. The cloud that Altaïr lost after Al Mualim. The boy tried escaping Altaïr's grasp, but gave up when he realised he wasn't going anywhere without the assassin's say. Altaïr's lips involuntarily twitched at the amused sight. A frown remained on his face, however, at the lack of information needed to decide whether the boy, amusing or not, should live.

_"And how…" his head tilted as he used his hidden blade to barely touch the boy's cheek and trace it to the jawline, "…does a fledging know my name?"_

The boy's cheeks coloured; no doubt he was flustered by Altaïr's actions. He bit his bottom lip before releasing it, leaving pinked, glossy lips. A craving suddenly hit Altaïr, and he accidentally applied more pressure with his blade when he involuntarily leaned in. The blade hadn't cut any skin due to the flatside being the one coming in contact with the boy's skin, but the boy naturally misinterpreted and tried escaping again. Altaïr's grip became final, and the boy minimally relaxed in resistence, reminded he couldn't do anything out of Altaïr's wants.

_"It's not fledging, _Eagle of Masyaf_," the boy corrected, indignant eyes flashing in a sign of defending pride. Altaïr noticed that the boy knew his reputation. "It's Desmond." _

_"Dezmund?"_

The boy's cheeks coloured again, but Altaïr knew the reason why, to which he allowed an amused chuckle before leaning in closer, this time on purpose.

_"Does my accent please you?"_

_"Ah…."_

_"Altaïr!"_

An assassin's sudden call startled Altaïr, allowing Desmond a moment to escape he fully exploited. Altaïr didn't share what happened to the assassin who appeared, oblivious to his Mentor's most recent activity, but Altaïr already had a name and a face to hunt for. Malik, of course, saw through his long-time friend right away when he laid eyes on Altaïr.

_"I don't care who you plan to bed, just make sure it doesn't happen in my sight." _

Altaïr supposed that counted as permission.

* * *

Desmond thought his ancestor was straight. It made logical sense, seeing as if the great Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad _was_, then Desmond wouldn't exist, but dying because of a pedestal, waking up in eleven-something BC Masyaf, and crossing paths with an ancestor had a funny way of telling Desmond to just _forget logic_. Add in the fact that not only was Altaïr as interested in relationships as Ezio – though not as exaggerated and often, seeing as Desmond was pretty sure no one else in all of history could really be as ladies'-man-like as Ezio – but Altaïr had the hots for Desmond. His descendent. Could life get any weirder?

"A zipper, you say?" "Yes." "So if I undo the zipper in your pants, those will come off too?"

Heaven help him.

Desmond turned to his ancestor, who was fiddling with his backpack. For some reason, Desmond had the stuff on him when he died, but he wasn't complaining. What he would have done without his favourite hoodie….

Regardless, while his ancestor wasn't quite straightforward about his interests as Ezio would have been, the master assassin made remarks or questions that Desmond knew weren't entirely innocent.

"Yes, those will come off too." "May I try?"

The sad part was that Altaïr turned Desmond _slightly_ on without having to touch him.

Curse you, sly assassin ancestor!

Desmond crossed his arms, eye twitching. "Of course not." "Hm." Altaïr got up from his desk and approached Desmond, eyes glinting. "What if I persuaded you to let me?" Suddenly, Desmond wished there wasn't a wall behind him. "You wouldn't." Altaïr raised a brow at the challenge, and Desmond immediately wanted to take his words back. Altaïr took a step closer, looking down at the shorter male. His chest and Desmond's crossed arms were nearly touching, and a slight smirk was playing at Altaïr's lips. "I would _not?_" Desmond tried moving back, but the wall was in the way. A bead of sweat suddenly caught Desmond's eye, and he watched it run from Altaïr's brow, to trace the jawline, down a neck, and under the assassin robes. Desmond shook off any beginnings of any imaginations, but at Altaïr's knowing look, Desmond knew his ancestor knew.

"Eh…." When did forming sentences become hard?

A short, amused chuckle escaped Altaïr as he leaned in further, his breath now caressing Desmond's face.

"Having trouble, _habibi?_"

Trouble? Of course not. Some personal space could do wonders, though.

Altaïr's smirk widened, and his hands went to his hips. Not Desmond's hips, of course, just to Altaïr's own, but _darn it, Desmond, don't think about it–!_ Desmond tried putting on the most displeased look on his face, but from Altaïr's expression, it must have come out as a pout.

"You're infuriatingly sneaky, you know that?"

"Mmhmm." Oh, what Desmond would give to wipe that smirk off of Altaïr's face.

"And cruel. Especially when you tease."

"I wasn't aware I was teasing."

Desmond glared. Altaïr looked ready to laugh.

"Of course, I can think of ways to make up for my behavior."

_Slap!_

Desmond left the room with a satisfied smile on his face. The look was _so_ worth the humiliation earlier.

* * *

"You hit like a girl."

"You can't swim."

This time, Altaïr glared at Desmond, who was sporting an accomplished smile on his face—the latter went even so far as to start whistling in nonchalance. Desmond had always wanted to say that to his ancestor from the time he drowned in the Animus, much to Vidic's displeasure. Considering the past several days of verbally sexual abuse, Desmond considered them even.

"Have you been speaking to Malik?"

"The understanding, one-armed man I met in the market a few days ago?" Desmond finally faced his ancestor, amused. "I have, _habibi_."

Altaïr's expression was better than the one when Desmond slapped him. What Desmond would give for a camera…. Desmond finally laughed, eyes tearing a bit as he laughed for the first time in a long time, and he suddenly felt refreshed and new. Life after death wasn't so bad, he supposed. A short, muffled sound from Altaïr got Desmond looking up and stopping his laughter to see what was the matter. His eyes widened a little in surprise. Altaïr realised the pair of eyes on him and removed the mouth covering his mouth.

"What?" he asked innocently.

Desmond's lips twitched. "Was that…a laugh?"

Altaïr suddenly looked offended. "Of course not."

"Liar." Desmond approached his ancestor, closing the distance between them quickly. "Do I have to persuade you to tell the truth?"

At his words thrown back at him, Altaïr raised a brow. While established that Desmond was an assassin, and Altaïr didn't mind having the fledging frequent the Masyaf castle grounds often, the Mentor didn't expect Desmond would have enough guts to do anything in a place where others may walk in at any time. Not that Altaïr minded, of course. He liked to see what people were capable of; seducing, even more so. The fact that Desmond's presence was addicting just topped Altaïr's situation off.

"Hmm," Altaïr placed a hand on Desmond's hip, pulling him a little closer, "that depends." "I don't know…" Desmond traced the straps that carried Altaïr's sword on his back, "if getting the truth would be worth it." Suddenly, realisation hit him.

What was he doing? This was his _ancestor_, for crying out loud!

Desmond suddenly pushed Altaïr away, ashamed. At Desmond's regretful expression, Altaïr frowned.

"Dezmund—"

"—I can't do this. _We_ can't do this."

"Anything is possible."

"_Ancestors _and_ descendants_ doing this isn't possible!"

Altaïr looked at Desmond, startled. It suddenly made sense, but to accept that…. Altaïr's lips thinned.

What Desmond didn't know was that Altaïr had fallen in love with him even before he first set sights on the time traveller, but ever since Solomon's Temple. Altaïr had desperately longed for the presence that accompanied him in one of his most trying times, and with Desmond's appearance, Altaïr had finally found the final piece of himself that died when the presence disappeared. Desmond was more to him than just sights and desires, bantering and teasing, a cloud or a fledging. Desmond was his _habibi_.

And to heck if anyone would try to change that.

Desmond nearly jumped when hands grabbed his shoulders and he looked up to see Altaïr gazing down at him with a determined look on his face. Their breaths mixed, warming their faces, and something uncomfortably warm flared in Desmond's stomach. The air felt electrified, and Desmond almost found himself expecting something—_wanting_ something.

He really hoped that "something" wasn't a kiss.

"Dezmund." Before Desmond could say a word, Altaïr cut him off. "I've needed you for the longest time. Your presence…I can't explain it."

Desmond shook his head. "In my time, we have technology to view ancestor's memories, so whatever Malik told me you've felt ever since Solomon's Temple is—"

"If there is a forbidden fruit, it would be you."

Desmond couldn't help his cheeks blushing at the words. Who knew his ancestor was a bit of a poet too? Unbeknownst to the two, the Apple on Altaïr's desk had begun to glow. Meanwhile, Desmond gently touched Altaïr's wrists, silently asking to be released, but his ancestor wouldn't let go. Their grip squeezed, as if asking for Desmond to meet Altaïr's eyes, and when he does, passionate brown eyes gaze back at him.

"_You_," Altaïr repeated.

_This was too much. _

"Altaïr…."

_He had to breath. _

Desmond pushed Altaïr away, flustered, confused, and secretly wanting yet hating it. At the same time, the Apple flashed brilliantly, blinding the two. When the light receded, the two had vanished.

* * *

**A/N: Good so far? This is my first time trying this out, and this writing style is very new to me, but I hope to do my best with it. Please leave a comment and tell me what you think!**


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